The Stench of Memory
by agentmoppet
Summary: Summary: Quidditch League Season Four – Seeker (Wasps) – Prompt: Player 1: An italicized word or phrase for emphasis AND a simile Since nobody goes before player 1, they are free to write about any of their team-mates' OTPs (but not their own!) Tomarry.


**A/N:** Quidditch League Season Four – Seeker (Wasps) – Prompt:

 **Player 1:** An _italicized_ word or phrase for emphasis AND a simile

Since nobody goes before player 1, they are free to write about any of their team-mates' OTPs (but not their own!)

Tomarry.

Muggle AU.

The stench of formaldehyde filled Tom's nostrils, a remembered scent that plagued him from day to day, but for once he barely noticed; he was captivated by the sight of the young man before him. One would think that, by now, he would be used to the image: black hair drifting across green eyes, followed by several seconds of impatient huffing, before the man would sweep the fringe back in irritation.

"Potter!"

Tom looked up in irritation, his people-watching interrupted by their bumbling oaf of a professor.

Potter looked up, his forehead still lined in concentration from the task he had been focusing on.

"Your pot is about to boil over," Flitwick said, pointing to Potter's saucepan with a frantic little twitch of his hand.

Potter jumped – the movement making Tom smirk in delight – and hurried to turn down the flame. He was struggling with their instructions, which was nothing new. Tom debated crossing the room and talking to him for the first time, introducing himself, and carefully, carefully, guiding him to complete the recipe.

Tom's eyes glazed over, thinking of skin brushing against skin and glances hidden beneath thick eyelashes. He shook his head; there was something worrying him, some thought at the back of his mind ever since he had heard Potter's name. It sounded so familiar. Did he know the man? Had they met before?

Sensory memory nudged him again, his nose wrinkling in distaste although all that he could smell was the rich scent of chocolate bubbling to perfection in a dozen saucepans around him. Formaldehyde and sterile, plastic sheets. Cold skin. Echoed screams.

Tom closed his eyes and willed the memory away. He had watched Potter for days now, never knowing his name, but something was different, and the persistent memory was preventing him from discovering the truth.

"Professor?"

Tom's eyes snapped open and he hissed in a sharp breath; Potter was looking at him. It was the first time they had made eye contact, which was nothing new for Tom – first year university students tended to ignore mature age students, as if their age might rub off on them.

Professor Flitwick hurried over to offer assistance, turning down the flame further still and guiding Potter's hand to stir the chocolate sauce gently. All the while, Potter's eyes remained on his.

Tom felt his own hand clench tighter around the spoon, cool steel digging into his palm like a blunted knife into flesh. Potter was looking at him like he knew him, but how could that be? He was so careful. No one knew him. _No one._

He flinched as the sound of a slowly dripping tap forced its way into his consciousness, although all the sinks were in the next room. He could smell the pickled organs now. They concealed the stench of death and marked him, so he could never run, never hide.

Flitwick left, turning to tend to another student, and Potter set down his spoon. Tom's breath hitched as he turned off the flame and crossed the room to stand before him. Careful to keep his thoughts hidden, he raised one smooth eyebrow and waited.

Potter rested his hands on the bench. They were rough hands, toughened by work and marked by dirt. Tom's own hands clenched, remembering the feel of broken earth and splintered wood.

"Tom Riddle?" Potter asked, looking up at him curiously.

"Who's asking?" He knew what his face would look in this instant – he had practiced it; cold and still, like marble.

"My name is Harry," Potter said, an unidentifiable emotion flicking behind his eyes.

The kitchen melted, giving way to a morgue, cold and dark. Bodies lay on cold steel beds, and Tom could still feel the broken earth beneath his fingers as he prepared their graves. He could still hear their screams, but one had got away, and the grave remained unfilled.

Green eyes captivated him, and he felt something shift inside him. A new path begin to take shape – some new way to recapture what had been lost to him.

"I think you knew my parents."

Tom froze. The meaning behind the quiet words was undeniable: Potter knew. The path began to shift and reform, returning to its original shape. He had never known what happened to the Potter child. He had heard that he went to live with relatives, but he had never been able to find them, and eventually he had stopped searching.

"Twenty years ago, you took something from me," Potter continued, unaware or uncaring of the calculations taking place in Tom's mind. "I've come to ask something of you."

Tom paused, watching as Potter dipped a finger casually into the pan of chocolate sauce simmering between them. He lifted it to his lips, tasting it carefully and smiling in appreciation. Tom's chest clenched tightly in objection – to what, he did not know.

"My parents were replaced," Potter continued, speaking, Tom assumed, of his hidden relatives. Something cold flashed in his eyes. "I'd like you to take them away too."

Tom's breath hitched, his calculations freezing and quickly reshaping. He reached forward, swiping a drop of chocolate from the side of Potter's mouth and smiling as their eyes met in challenge.

The smell of formaldehyde faded away, and a new path took shape.


End file.
